


How You Turn My World, You Precious Thing

by The_Artist_Formerly_Known_As_SatCat



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alcohol, Cunnilingus, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Kissing, Masquerade Ball, Minor Hanleia, Mistaken Identity, The Labyrinth AU no one asked for, Vaginal Sex, minor poe x kaydel, minor stormflower
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-29
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2020-04-24 17:32:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19178080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Artist_Formerly_Known_As_SatCat/pseuds/The_Artist_Formerly_Known_As_SatCat
Summary: Excerpt:Kylo doesn’t miss Hux’s pointed gaze when he asks, a little too casually, “What about Johnson?”Kylo tenses, his shapely lip curling up in a snarl.“What about her?” he snaps back. KyloloathesRey Johnson. Not only is she one of his father’s more recent acquisitions for the company; not only is she a project manager — meaning she has no specific strength or skillset, and that she’s forever jerry-rigging things to make the “Millenium Falcon” project fly; but also, to make matters worse, she is assigned to liaise withhisteam, The First Order. Withhim,specifically. To make a long story short, Rey Johnson is a personal, dedicated pain in Kylo’s ass.-----He's the hotshot asshole who leadsThe First Order, the legal arm of The Resistance. She's the new company liaison who has been assigned to The First Order to keep them accountable.The annual Resistance Masquerade Ball is about to turn Kylo and Rey's worlds upside down.





	1. Invited

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WinglessOne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WinglessOne/gifts).



> ***This is a reposting of a deleted fic.***
> 
> Hey what's up some people have tracked me down to ask about some fics I wrote that they missed when I killed my account. By request, I am reposting some of them. I won't be checking for comments or anything else on them, since I don't really participate in the fandom much anymore.
> 
> Anyway, enjoy these in good health, and be kind to each other in the comments ok?!
> 
> ~(TAFKA)SC

* * *

“Damn, Kylo, that is _bespoke.”_ Phasma’s tone is impressed, with an appreciation bordering on arousal, and Hux bites back a jealous remark, choosing instead to give his powder one last brush and put on his periwig.  
  
Looking into the mirror with a grin that borders on savage, Kylo can’t help but agree with Phasma. Mitaka has done an exquisite job — which is why Kylo retains his services as tailor, and compensates him handsomely. After all, if Kylo is going to pay homage to one of the most under-appreciated anti-villains in the history of cinema, he will be nothing less than _flawless._  
  
The trousers leave little to the imagination, true, but he has nothing to be ashamed of in _that_ department. With the addition of a dancer’s cup to smooth the lines, they fit him perfectly. The cut of the shirt and coat are exquisite, skimming his frame and disguising his musculature without drowning him or making him look awkward, and the sapphire blue satin, sequins, and glass jewels catch the light as well as the eye, drawing attention to his midline. The crowing glory of it all, though, is the mask: a perfect replica of the film, aged leather, worked into supple curves and wicked lines to mold to his face as if it were a part of him, crowned with devil’s horns and supported by a skeletal hand. Between the depth of the mask (which comes down to his mouth, leaving the barest line of his top lip exposed) and the height of the collar and cravat, only his chin is exposed.  
  
“Who made your mask? Dopheld’s never been into leatherworking. _Hates_ working with it, actually.” Phasma looked puzzled.  
  
“Oh, Mitaka knows a guy,” Kylo shrugged. He had actually been impressed to find out that his soft-spoken tailor knew a leatherworker whose work in leather is every bit as exquisite as Dopheld’s in cloth.  
  
Ever the perfectionist, Phasma had insisted on doing Kylo’s makeup, and he is inordinately pleased with how spot-on it is. His scar is hidden, the skin flawless, and with a pair of contacts, he’s achieved the “bonk-eyed” look that the character’s originator had been famous for. His raven tresses are completely contained under a cap, the platinum blonde wig atop it cut and styled perfectly. While Phasma’s calling as a stylist was one he regularly availed himself of for more mundane reasons, tonight he is particularly grateful for her years of experience as a make-up artist and stylist in theatre and drag shows.  
  
“Do you think anyone there will know who we are?” Phasma asks, a mischievous smile on her lips.  
  
Kylo sneers. “I think this disguise would fool my own mother.”  
  
“Considering she’s our boss, and the one who’s throwing this shindig, that might be a little ambitious,” Hux snorts.  
  
Phasma rolls her eyes. “No, you preening jackasses, I meant ‘do you think anyone there will recognize who we’re dressed as?’”  
  
“Well, actually,” Hux begins, his nose upturned, the fingers of his right hand tented dramatically over his sternum, “I am a _perfect_ likeness of Tom Hulce, so if they don’t recognize me, it’s hardly _my_ fault.”  
  
Phasma rolls her eyes again, though she can’t help but chuckle at Hux’s dramatics.  
  
“And might I just say, you’re looking ravishing tonight, Signorina Cavalieri,” he croons, plucking up Phasma’s hand and kissing it.  
  
“Idiot.” Phasma gazes at him adoringly. The two of them together are almost disgusting, with how much they dote on one another. However, their public personae are as ruthless as their private dalliances are sweet, and Kylo finds he can’t mind too much. The three of them leave Phasma and Hux's suite and head to the elevator.  
  
“I must say, Kylo, I for one am rather glad that she throws these parties; spotting the cheap knockoffs is almost as much fun as looking flawless.” Hux’s tone is bored, but his smile is lethal, and Kylo’s only answer is a derisive snort.  
  
“What do you think everyone else will be wearing?” Phasma asks, her tone almost coy, and she steps into the waiting elevator.  
  
“Well, I fully expect the Dynamic Duo to make an appearance,” Kylo sneers as the doors close.  
  
“Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum?”  
  
“Well, yes, but they’ll be in costume.”  
  
A snide laugh at Poe and Finn’s expense rings out of the elevator car, the sound as backbiting and vicious—that is, courtly—as their costumes might suggest, imbuing the scene with an inescapable authenticity.  
  
Poe and Finn are almost inseparable and have been since Poe had gone on a leave of absence for two weeks and then returned with Finn in tow — Finn who joined the company, to the delight of Leia Organa, President and CEO. No one had been able to find out exactly what had gone down, there — not even Hux, who gossiped like an old churchyard biddy and had spies (he would call them “interdepartmental acquaintances”) _everywhere._  
  
Kylo doesn’t miss Hux’s pointed gaze when he asks, a little too casually, “What about Johnson?”  
  
Kylo tenses, his shapely lip curling up in a snarl.  
  
“What about her?” he snaps back. Kylo _loathes_ Rey Johnson. Not only is she one of his father’s more recent acquisitions for the company; not only is she a project manager — meaning she has no specific strength or skillset, and that she’s forever jerry-rigging things to make the “Millenium Falcon” project fly; but also, to make matters worse, she is assigned to liaise with _his_ team, The First Order. With _him,_ specifically. To make a long story short, Rey Johnson is a personal, dedicated pain in Kylo’s ass. She’s always coming at him with niggling budget issues (”Ren, there is not one single line in the budget you submitted for this fiscal year about spending $10,000 to go to a professional legal conference in Aspen, so if your team wants to go, I’m afraid they’ll have to cover the cost. You can submit for reimbursement, of course, but that would be up to President Organa and her team, so I can’t guarantee it will be approved...”) and trifling statutory concerns ( _yes,_ Johnson was the kind of person who brought up legal concerns to a _lawyer_ ) and even had the nerve at one point to suggest that his team was a “deliberate maverick and outlier in the company culture”, and that “as a group that needs to successfully interface with other teams in The Resistance,” he really might consider “streamlining his team’s presence to be more congruous within the company as a whole,” whatever the fuck that means. What it means is that she is a headache.  
  
“Oh,” Hux shrugs, his lips turning down in a non-committal expression, “I was just wondering whether she would show up at all. I can’t imagine she would, come to really think of it. I doubt she has enough culture to see the point.”  
  
“You’re quite wrong, my dear,” Phasma interjects coolly. “Miss Johnson absolutely _hero-worships_ Organa and Solo. They’re throwing the party. She’ll be there — even if she would have better stayed home.”  
  
The elevator dings, and Kylo heaves a long-suffering sigh disguised as a growl; he doesn’t want to think of Johnson or Dameron or Stormer. He doesn’t want to think of anyone, to be honest, and that is what he is going to do. The party struts on toward the ballroom in comparative silence, some inane conversation about home issues between Hux and Phasma enough to carry them the rest of the way to the gala.

* * *

The Grand Ballroom of the Naboo lives up to its name, an elegant and refined venue inside a sprawling neo-gothic hotel smack in the middle of downtown. and for this event, even the valets and waitstaff are decked out with eyemasks to complement their tuxedos and dresses. As per the usual, the Resistance has reserved a Naberrie Block of rooms for their partygoers, so named because the Naberrie family, which had been well-to-do since God was a boy, understood the potential fracas that could be caused by housing socially and politically _diverse_ (it would be more honest to say _hostile)_ groups in a small cluster of rooms. The Naberrie Block scattered rooms throughout the hotel, from its more modest rooms to its most opulent suites, with the penthouse suite of course being reserved for the host and hostess. This year, the Resistance Masquerade Ball is taking up fully half the hotel, in addition to the Grand Ballroom, and while it’s just after 10 in the evening, the soiree is already underway. If past years were any indication, the celebration would power along until the wee hours of the morning, with Han and Leia as likely to be the ones closing it out as any of their younger employees. They might be in their sixties, but, occasional complaints about knees notwithstanding, it isn’t doing a thing to slow them down.  
  
Most of the employees are either milling around the open bar or on the dance floor. Snap is manning the speakers tonight, an old vinyl record cut and shaped to his face in a Phantom of the Opera-style half-mask, his black and red cloak and black tuxedo making a striking statement. An Invisible Man is sitting in the corner, enjoying a beer, and a group from marketing has all shown up in Austen-esque Regency garb, complete with masques; Thanisson looks surprisingly comfortable as the only male in a gaggle of women. Jess, dressed as one of the Bennet sisters—or was she one of the Dashwood sisters?— makes her way over to Poe at the bar.  
  
“Hey Poe, good to see you!” she chirps, and then to the bartender, “I’ll have a paloma, please.” Turning back to Poe, she looks him up and down. “Nice Superman! You even got the curl!” It bounces against her finger.  
  
He is all charm as he strikes an heroic pose. “Thank you, citizen Pava!” She laughs, and Poe smiles and indicates her group. “So, group costume?”  
  
She rolls her eyes. “Yeah. To tell you the truth, I think they just wanted to see Tom in a cravat.”  
  
“Well,” Poe says, tipping his head from side to side with a thoughtful look, “he _is_ British. I could see how a girl might be into that.”  
  
“I guess,” she says dismissively. “I think I would have rather done a superhero like you two,” indicating Batman beside him. “Hey Finn,” she says, by way of greeting.  
  
“Hey,” he says, his tone brighter than Batman’s has any right to be. “You’d make a kick-ass Wonder Woman, Jess.”  
  
She gives him a cheeky salute as the bartender returns with her drink. Sipping it, she nods, then moves off to rejoin her group.  
  
“Well, enjoy your evening, guys!”  
  
“You too, Jess!”  
  
Poe’s attention is drawn to the front door as a buxom Poison Ivy and lithe, bouncy Harley Quinn sashay into the room. Indicating the pair, Poe nudges Finn, who promptly sprays his beer all over the place in an attempt not to choke. Spluttering as Poe chuckles, Finn dabs a few spots with a bar nap and tries to regain his footing as the women link arms and glide toward the bar. They’re intercepted by… Indiana Jones? Poe and Finn exchange confused looks as Indiana is joined by a woman in red pants and a white top, wearing a golden and ruby mask that looks like an ancient Egyptian artifact. The costumes are well-done, to say the least.  
  
“Oh my god, Leia! You look AMAZING! And Han, you look like you were _born_ to play Indy! I’m such a huge fan of the movies, you have no idea!” gushes Harley, and Poison Ivy’s head is bobbing in agreement.  
  
“Well, Kaydel, Rose, you two make a wonderful pair of villanesses!” Leia replies, smiling. “And what’s more, you girls did a marvelous job getting the ballroom ready,” Leia says, pride suffusing her voice as she looks around. “Han and I wanted to make sure to thank you both. It’s perfect, isn’t it Han?”  
  
He gives a lopsided grin. “You two really outdid yourselves. Head over to the bar! Drinks are on us!” He salutes them with his whiskey on the rocks, and Leia raises her champagne flute.  
  
“We plan on it!” the girls laugh, and they head toward the bar, arm in arm. Poe lowers his eyemask and stands up to approach them.  
  
“I hope you ladies aren’t here looking for trouble.”  
  
“POE!” Harley squeals, and then Kaydel hurriedly clears her throat, scrambling for some semblance of dignified antipathy.  
  
“What’s it to you, Superboy?” Poison Ivy’s voice is dark and sultry, and Rose flips her tresses carelessly over one shoulder, a move that brings Finn from her peripheral vision to center. She really hopes that her makeup keeps her blush from showing, but she’s having a little too much fun being a bad girl to stop now.  
  
“So long as you aren’t up to any trouble, there won’t be any,” a deep voice rumbles from underneath Batman’s mask. Somehow, Rose’s legs don’t turn to jello, and she is grateful.  
  
“Hey! How is it that two girls can do nothing but show up looking for a good time with each other and the first thing they get is harassed by some guys?” Kaydel’s voice has a twinge that is almost Jersey, and damned if it doesn’t make Poe stand up a little straighter.  
  
“Come on, Harley, let’s get a drink,” Rose purrs.  
  
“Allow us—in the name of peace making,” Superman interjects, but Poison Ivy shoots him down.  
  
“We can handle it, Superboy. The question is, can you two handle us?”  
  
Finn’s eyes boggle under his mask, and an awkward silence settles over the four of them until they burst out laughing.  
  
“You two look great, Rose!” says Poe, and Rose smirks.  
  
“You guys don’t clean up too badly yourselves!”  
  
Finn’s head tilts to one side. “Where’s Rey?”  
  
“Oh, she was having to make some last minute adjustments. She should still be in the suite,” Kaydel replies, and then orders a Long Island Iced Tea for herself and a Sidecar for Rose.  
  
“Well I hope she makes it down soon, or she’ll miss most of the fun!” Poe finishes off his martini and signals for the bartender.  
  
The atmosphere is jarred by a sudden hush in the conversation, which is quickly replaced by a buzz; The Goblin King and his entourage have arrived. The crowd seems almost to undulate, pushing Marion and Indiana forth as if cresting a wave. The uncomfortable silence extends as the patrons of the party look over the new arrivals, and several of the party-goers are shuffling their feet, unsure of what to do. At long last, equilibrium is restored as Leia clasps the Goblin King by his shoulders and gives a hearty, ringing laugh, pride beaming from her face.  
  
“What magnificent costumes! Pity we don't have a contest!” She turns to Hux and Phasma. “Now, signori, let me get a look at you! Wait, wait, don't tell me… it's on the tip of my tongue!”  
  
“Give the lady a few bars, won't you, Signore?” someone asks from behind a mask.  
  
“What! Without an orchestra?!” Hux replies, a high-pitched, nervous cackle erupting from beneath his unicorn mask.  
  
“Ah!” Leia claps her hands in delight, her sense of melodrama clearly well-suited to the occasion. “What an honor to have Amadeus Mozart grace our party! But I am afraid that the name of your lovely companion escapes me, Herr Mozart!”  
  
Phasma executes a flawless curtsy. “Signorina Cavalieri, Madame.”  
  
Leia smiles, and leans forward to speak softly in her ear. “Lovely as always, Phasma. You've outdone yourself again.”  
  
She turns back to The Goblin King.  
  
“Welcome to the party, Your Majesty! Who doesn't know the Goblin King!”  
  
“Especially when you had to watch the movie as often as we did,” mutters Han, which puts a scowl on Kylo’s face and earns him a glare from Leia.  
  
“Excuse me,” Kylo grinds out, his voice strained. “I need a drink.”  
  
“You and me both,” Leia sighs. “Shall we?”  
  
With a smirk that conveys more annoyance than amusement, he offers his mother an arm, and they leave Han behind. Weaving around an eight-foot Nosferatu _(a brilliantly-puppeteered piece,_ Leia sighs, and Kylo is inclined to agree, though he imagines it far more work than he was willing to put in to a _party),_ skirting a party of surprisingly muscular Spartans and their diaphanously-clad +1s, and then plowing through a pack made up of Godzilla, Mothma, and King Ghidora, mother and son finally make it to the bar. Leia’s champagne is hastily topped off, and she leaves her Goblin King with a smile and a squeeze on his arm to make her way back to the front and greet more guests.  
  
Staring at the space that Leia just vacated, Rose and Kaydel share a nervous glance. Rey hadn’t told anyone but the two of them about her costume, and even if she had, that doesn’t explain why the biggest asshole in the firm, the one who made Rey cry almost daily for the first two months she was with the Resistance, was here as Jareth. This was not going to end well.  
  
“Should we text her, to warn her, at least?” Rose whispers.  
  
“Did you bring your phone?” Kaydel replies nervously.  
  
Rose glances down at her corset and hip skirt, then fixes Kaydel with an incredulous look. “Kay, where in the hell would I put it on this costume?”  
  
“I mean, same!” Kaydel shrugs. “I guess we should just keep an eye out for her, make sure we spot her first.”

* * *

Rey is spewing profanity; she’s late, and her mask is _not_ cooperating. She had brought her hot glue gun, but this isn’t a thing that the glue gun can fix. She had also brought bailing wire, which is helping, but the mask will not stay attached to her face, and under no circumstances is she going to show up to a masquerade ball with a mask that won’t _mask._ Casting about her in desperation, Rey is struck by a jolt of inspiration, and she grabs a remnant string of tiny false pearl trim and her wire cutters.  
  
It is 11:30, her makeup is on, her hair is teased beyond all reason, her dress is frilly and poofed enough that it barely fits through the door, and her mask stays in place, courtesy of a band of pearls that blend in with the streamers and metallics that decorate her hair. Giving herself a final once-over in the mirror, she nods.  
  
“Sarah, I believe you’re ready to go to the ball,” she says, all traces of her British accent completely gone as she affects the young heroine’s cadence and speech with barely a thought. Tilting her chin skyward, she swishes through the door, letting it close behind her, and innocently sweeps toward a scenario out of a wild fantasy—or a nightmare.

  



	2. Dance Magic Dance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sarah and Jareth meet. Nothing goes as planned, or as hoped.

_“I put a spell on youuuuuuuu…”_  
  
The words ring out as Kylo looks up from the bar and lays eyes on the vision that is 13-year-old Ben Solo’s fantasy come to life. Her hair is warm brown, her skin like honey, and from the top of her head to her shoes, she is Sarah made flesh. The music, the party, his parents — everything falls away as she glides into the room, and his body is magnetized toward her, as if she were his polestar. He quickly drains the rest of his Old-Fashioned, though it does nothing to soothe his suddenly parched mouth, and he stands, straightening his coat and looking down to ensure that everything is in its perfect place. When he looks back up, she is gone, swallowed by the crowd of masks, and his heart leaps into his throat. His movements are deliberately slow, even if his mind is becoming increasingly frantic. _How can there be so many tall costumes?!_ This must be the first time in his entire adult life that he has not been at a height advantage.  
  
When he sees her next, she is cornered by his parents, and he wants to howl in frustration — Han will undoubtedly crack some stupid joke about Kylo and the film and ruin everything! His heart is pounding, his lungs struggling as he paces, a circling wolf that can’t approach the object of his desire. He fights dueling urges to glare and to look away when Leia catches his eye, and yet… a gesture, a word from Leia, and Han moves toward the DJ table, leaving the women standing alone. Kylo’s fists unclench and his jaw slackens when Leia says something aside to Sarah, and the younger woman laughs, the music of her joy infusing his soul. Then, a close, quiet word; a question? Sarah’s mouth crinkles in confusion. She shakes her head, then looks around, searching for someone, or something. Instinctively, Kylo turns his back, ducking behind Godzilla, and he misses Leia’s furrowed brow, and Sarah’s sigh and shrug, but he does see two other women on the dance floor point at Sarah, then break away from their group. A rising tide of panic and possessiveness sweeps over Kylo, and he spins back around, closing the distance in a few strides. If her raised eyebrows are any indication, Leia is surprised at the sudden change, but she rises to the occasion gamely.  
  
“Now,” Leia says, her eyes flashing with mischief, “I believe you already know the Goblin King?”

* * *

“Now, I believe you already know the Goblin King?” Leia asks, her smile nothing short of mischievous. Rey whips around, her eyes wide and lips parted as she drinks in the presence of her counterpart. She had thought there could be no beauty like that of the film, the perfection that was the original Jareth. It takes her a flash of an instant to realize how wrong she was. The man before her oozes sex appeal and charisma, even with his face almost completely obscured by the mask he is holding. He takes her hand in his own massive one and dips down to kiss it, and Rey’s heart flutters. Sarah she may be (even if just for tonight), but she is Sarah older and wiser. Rey knows every cel of the film by heart, and has imagined herself in just such a scenario since she was a little girl. Her VHS copy of Labyrinth was one of the few possessions she’d managed to cart around from home to home, and Jareth’s kingdom held no terrors for a child who had seen so much misery in the human world. The few times that she had found friends as a young girl, they had bonded over the film, and had discussed it endlessly. She knows that there were many ways that Sarah might have taken the Goblin King’s offer and had everything she wanted—devotion, power, and even Toby… after all, what need would Jareth have of Toby when he had a Goblin Queen?  
  
Behind her, Rose and Kaydel exchange dismayed glances; they had raced to get to her before Kylo, but had failed completely. How could they warn her when he was right there beside her? The situation is altogether horrible in every way, because they can’t say a word without shattering Rey’s happiness at a long-held dream becoming reality, and yet, it was almost certain that Kylo himself would destroy Rey’s happiness, if only because he seems to be generally bent on doing so. Loath as they are to see Kylo hurt Rey, it makes even less sense for her two best friends to hurt her in the name of ‘helping’. Defeated, they slink back to Finn and Poe, their concerned murmurings lost to the thrumming of the crowd.  
  
With the barest tug of his wrist, Jareth pulls her to his side; she goes willingly, of course. He escorts her to the bar, and orders another Old-Fashioned to toast her White Russian. The pour is fair, though not too heavy, and between her elation at her dream coming true and the warm carelessness of the alcohol, Rey is floating on a hazy cloud of satisfaction, and can almost gloss over the fact that, on meeting the man of her dreams, she can’t find a thing in the world to say to him. Why doesn’t he say something?  
  
“How is this even possible?”  
  
She cringes, wishing she hadn’t tried quite so hard to speak.  
  
He grins, and she finds herself wondering if he had a mouthpiece to make his teeth just slightly crooked, or if she was in heaven and David Bowie had come back from the dead just for her this Halloween. How would that even work? Would he be undead? An apparition? No, this man was far too solid and warm to be an apparition. She smirks; if anyone could find a way to have death-with-benefits, it would be David Bowie. As if in response to that thought, a drum beat with climbing crescendo flares across the speakers, a familiar progression that brings Rey to her feet, and she looks at her Goblin King, who is giving the stick of his mask a final twist, unscrewing it from the clawed hand, and pocketing it in a specially-made sleeve on the inside of his jacket.  
  
Her eyebrow raises. “The one in the movie didn’t do that.” Her tone is impressed, rather than critical, and Kylo can’t stop himself from preening, just a little.  
  
“Dance with me,” he says, his voice a smooth, cocky baritone.  
  
“Yes,” she breathes.  
  
_“Put on your red shoes and dance the blues, to the song they’re playing on the radio, while color lights up your face; sway through the crowd to an empty space…”_  
  
He leads her in a dance that she doesn’t know, and Rey doesn’t know whether she is more surprised that he is leading or that she is allowing it, but either way, he’s making her look good; she hasn’t stumbled once, nor has she stepped on his feet. Her hand is on his shoulder, his is on her waist, and the room spins around them as their bodies find the rhythm and sway. She’s unable to tear her eyes from his, even though they’re buried under their respective masks.  
  
_“If you say run, I’ll run with you, and if you say hide, we’ll hide, because my love for you would break my heart in two if you should fall into my arms and tremble like a flower!”_  
  
At this, he spins her, pressing a warm and seriously _large_ hand against the small of her back as he dips her, bending over her body with his own. She trusts herself to his support, arching back and dropping her shoulders, her breasts pushing forward almost directly in front of his face, until he pulls her back upright. She rises smoothly, almost languidly, feeling his hot breath on her throat, allowing her lips to nearly graze his chin. This could be it, she thinks. I could die tonight and be a happy woman. At the thought, her heart melts, but her libido screeches in protest—what is wrong with her that she would pass up the opportunity to sleep with someone who was the most gorgeous man that she was likely to ever see?! A slowing of his pace, a more tentative touch, jars her back to what presently passes for reality, and she realizes that he is holding her somehow closer than before, and while she can’t be sure because of the mask, she would swear his eyes were lingering on her lips.

* * *

Kylo marvels at how this is his life. He didn’t even expect anyone to recognize him as Jareth, let alone to have _anyone_ who would come as Sarah. And now— now, Kylo is spinning her around the dance floor, and she is everything he could ever want. She is beautiful, sensual, and seems almost like she can read his mind, responding deliciously to his every move. Her lips are so pink, and they look so soft and warm, and he wants so badly to kiss her dizzy.  
  
_“You could look into my eyes… under the moonlight, the serious moonlight…”_  
  
He spins her again, pulling her in tighter against him, feeling her hips sway against his, and he leans in for a kiss as the music fades. He feels her breath hitch and sees her lips part, and just as his mouth is about to touch hers, the moment is shattered when someone begins applauding. She gasps, the spell broken, and blushes a deep crimson, tearing herself away from his embrace and fleeing through the sea of gawkers and out onto a balcony. Kylo’s searing gaze roves over the crowd, desperate to find out which of these absolute bastards are responsible for destroying his chance for the kiss that it felt like his whole life had been building up to… a kiss… at a work event…at a company run by his _parents…_  
  
If Kylo were presently capable of rational thought, he would realize that publicly kissing a co-worker at a company party was probably a good way to kill his legal and corporate career with a sexual harassment charge. He might even find it in him to be grateful to the mystery applauder for stopping him from sucking the lips off the head of a woman whose name he doesn’t even know. Regrettably, Kylo is not presently capable of rational thought. Kylo is presently weighing committing homicide to relieve his aggravation versus following her out to the balcony to continue what was so unforgivably interrupted. Caught up in his own internal conflict, he storms off the dance floor and out of the ballroom, ignoring the whispers behind him, and tears off his mask. Stomping down the hallway toward the elevator, all he can think of is the smell of her, a heady mixture of rose and fresh green, like a garden after the rain. Something about it is hauntingly familiar, lingering just at the edge of his conscious memory, but it eludes him, stoking his aggravation further; Sarah slips through his fingers like a breeze, carrying notes of a melody that he struggles in vain to remember.  
  
He may press the elevator call button a bit harder and more frequently than strictly necessary. He may also pace in the elevator as it ascends, and jam his key card into the door with a vengeance it has done nothing to deserve. The door refuses to slam behind him, its hydraulic system shutting gently despite his efforts, and the snippy click of the lock is hardly satisfying. He paces, his ire waxing and waning as he relives the moments downstairs once more in the privacy of his own suite, and if his wrath is allayed not by property destruction, but by imagining what that kiss her might have led to, who is going to tell him he’s wrong?

* * *

Rey is pacing the balcony, her mortification giving way to anger. Yes, she had been about to snog a man she didn’t even know! But really, where was the harm in that?! What on earth possessed someone to _applaud?_ What was this, secondary school? The lion’s share of her anger, though,was reserved for herself. Why had she run? What had come over her? And worst of all, the Goblin King is nowhere to be found now, vanishing like a thief in the night with her heart and her dreams. So yes, Rey is decidedly angry and upset.  
  
“Rey?” Rose’s voice. “What are you drinking?”  
  
“White Russian,” she mumbles miserably.  
  
“Be right back, sweetie.”  
  
True to her word, Rose emerges onto the balcony moments later, Kaydel in tow, and they’re carrying drinks.  
  
“So—” Rose begins, but Rey cuts her off.  
  
“I don’t really want to talk about it, Rose.”  
  
“Talk about what, Rey? I only got one word out,” Rose points out, her tone gentle but her words brooking no nonsense.  
  
Rey pauses and hangs her head. “I’m sorry, Rosie. I just… I really don’t understand what just happened and I’m angry about it.”  
  
Kaydel and Rose share a Significant Look that is not lost on Rey.  
  
“What.” Rey huffs, her voice turning almost petulant. “That look means you two _know_ something. Out with it.”  
  
“Uh, well,” Rose flounders.  
  
“We know who your mystery man is,” Kaydel blurts, earning her a dirty glare from Rose.  
  
“You do?!” Rey is desperate for anything, any information that might let her reclaim what she’s lost.  
  
“We do,” Rose confirms, but shakes her head. “You’re not going to like it.”  
  
“What, is it Kylo Ren or something?” Rey deadpans, rolling her eyes, but Kaydel’s grimace and Rose’s sudden interest in her drink give her pause. “You’re _shitting_ me. There is absolutely no fucking way _that_ is Kylo Ren!”  
  
“We saw when he came in with Hux and Phasma, and then Han and Leia talked to him, and he and Leia had a drink together at the bar just down from us,” Kaydel confirms.  
  
Rey’s expression is utterly stunned and bereft.  
  
“I’m sorry, Rey,” the blonde continues. “When we noticed you’d arrived, we tried to get to you and let you know, but he got to you first, and we couldn’t figure out how to tell you without causing a scene.”  
  
Rey hangs her head, her mask drooping in her free hand.  
  
“It’s not fair!” she spits.  
  
_“You say that so often! I wonder what your basis for comparison is,”_ says a voice in her head, one that might be Bowie’s or might be Ren’s; she’s not really sure anymore, and that just _sucks._  
  
The feeling of a finger on her cheek startles her, bringing her attention back to the present, and she realizes there’s a chill on her cheek where wet trails have run down her face.  
  
“ReyRey, I’m so sorry,” Rose murmurs, wrapping her friend and her very poofy dress in a hug. “Why don’t we finish our drinks and go dance for a while, get your mind off of the whole thing?”  
  
Rey sniffles, and manages a weak smile for her friends’ benefit that she doesn’t really feel. “Ok, I’ll try.”  
  
Snap is spinning some really good tunes, keeping the floor hopping, and Rey does her best to keep up with her friends, but she finds that she wishes she had his big hands guiding her, and it’s almost half past midnight, but she can’t put it out of her head. Heading back to the bar, she asks for a glass of water and sits in a nearby chair to collect her thoughts. She’s just beginning to sip on it when Kaydel and Poe walk toward the bar, arm in arm and clearly into one another, and it’s a gut punch. It gets worse, though, when a tiny twitch of Poe’s head causes Kaydel’s eyes to flick up and catch Rey’s — and Kaydel pulls herself apart from Poe, just a little. She wants to be happy that two of her closest friends have stopped pussyfooting around and have admitted their feelings to one another. On the heels of her disaster of an evening, though, she just _can’t._  
  
Rey gets up, walks over to Poe and Kaydel, and sets down her water. “I’m heading back to the room. I’m not really feeling this, and I have no intention of being a drag for the rest of the night.”  
  
“But Rey, you only got here an hour ago!” Poe protests.  
  
“Yeah, well, apparently an hour is all I can take tonight. Let Rose and Finn know, would you?”  
  
Kaydel nods, a guilty look in her eyes.  
  
“Kay, it’s fine, I just need to be somewhere else right now, ok?” Rey is struggling to keep her tone under control and breathe, and Kaydel gives her shoulder a squeeze.  
  
“Okay, Rey. See you when we get back to the room.”  
  
“Yeah, ok.”  
  
Stepping into the less-stale air of the hallway, Rey immediately feels the pressure in her head and heart ease, and she returns to the room that she and the other girls are sharing. She puts her mask down on the table, but before she can begin taking down her hair or getting dressed in her pajamas, she is struck with a thought: going back into the office with this hanging over the two of them is only going to make an already-tense situation worse.  
  
“Front desk.” The woman at the desk sounds inordinately pleased to be there, given that it’s almost 1AM on Halloween night.  
  
“Yes, this is Rey Johnson in Suite 415. I just need to check on another guest for Ms. Organa. Can I get Kylo Ren’s room extension, please?”  
  
“One moment please.” The sound of typing punctuates the silence, and Rey prays she wasn’t too forward with the name-dropping. “The extension is 8808, Miss Johnson.”  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
Rey looks at her handset, and sees extension 8415. Is this the craziest plan she’s ever hatched? Probably. Nevertheless, her feet lead her to the elevator, and she punches the number 8.

  



	3. Thirteen O'Clock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rey knocks on Kylo's door, feelings are confessed, and the long-delayed kiss happens. This is where we earn our rating, kiddos!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WinglessOne made me a wonderful photomanipulation that is just PERFECT!  
>   
> 

Kylo doesn’t know who is knocking at his door at 1 in the morning, but he’s pretty sure he’s going to punch them in the face,. He hasn’t gotten out of his costume and into his pajamas; hell, he hasn’t even had another drink. He just paced for a while, cursed, then got lost in his own thoughts about Sarah and how she’d disappeared. He yanks open the door.  
  
“Who in the— _Johnson?!”_  
  
Then it hits Kylo—the smell of a rain-washed English garden. It’s the scent that Rey always wears. Suddenly, he’s in a scene from a fantasy, or a nightmare: Rey Johnson, his personal, dedicated pain in the ass, is also Sarah, the woman of his dreams, and isn’t that just the frosting on what is turning out to be a rather dubious cupcake? His face crumples as he struggles to regain his composure.  
  
“Kylo…” she begins, then seems to get lost.  
  
His rage boils to the surface, and his teeth are bared as he lashes out with his words. “You figured it out, congratulations! So how long have you been fucking with me?! Kind of you to come to me in person to throw it in my face! Who gave it away? Was it Han?!”  
  
“What are you—” her voice chokes, and she ducks her head, turning away for a moment. Her voice is low, nearly a whisper, when she says, “I came to say thank you… though that might have been a mistake!”  
  
He rears back as if she’d slapped him. “Thank me? What the hell would you be thanking me for?”  
  
“That’s a valid question at this point!” Her own anger flares and she throws her head back, staring him down with fire in her eyes — eyes that are wet with tears. _That_ stuns him, quieting the raging beast, at least for the moment. In all the months that they’ve worked together, he’s only seen the barest hint of aggravation or anger. He has never seen her _cry._ Panic wells up to replace the rage that is ebbing away, and he takes a breath, nostrils flaring , as he gropes for something to say.  
  
“You were perfect,” she breathes, wistfulness infusing her voice. “For a moment, it was like my wildest dream had come true. I danced with — well —” Her cheeks are turning scarlet, and she abruptly changes course. “Kylo, I don’t know what you think of me, or why, and really? It doesn’t matter. This isn’t about you, and it never was. I am Sarah because in a world that gives two shits about orphans in foster care, I could watch Labyrinth and pretend that Jareth wanted me for his own.” Her eyes widen, and she looks shocked at the words she is speaking, like she is not the one in control. The dam has burst, though, and there isn’t a thing she can do to stop the flow. “I’ve dreamed of being Sarah all my life. No one else ever wanted me, and no one ever will, and just for a moment… just for a moment… it was the night that my life would…”  
  
The flow from the dam is slowing to a trickle, and her cheeks are flaming. “Instead,” she continues, mustering what dignity she has left, “I’ve paid for a half-hour of heaven with the night from hell. I’ll thank you for the first, because it was a good dream. I’ll go back to my room to sleep off the second.” She lifts her hem, prepared to sweep out with all the self-respect she has left, but his hand darts out, grabbing her arm.  
  
“I didn’t know,” he protests. “Your parents, the system—”  
  
“I don’t need your pity, Kylo.” Rey cuts him off, but she has no anger left to marshal, and her emotional exhaustion is plain in her voice and her face.  
  
“No! I—” he erupts in frustration at his own ineloquence, then huffs, and takes a deep breath. “It’s not about _pity,_ Rey.” Kylo suddenly looks around, as if he’s only just becoming cognizant that they’re having a rather personal and private conversation in what is, for all intents and purposes, a very public space.  
  
“Look, Rey, I…” He founders for a moment— _what is he doing?!_ Then again, it’s not like this night can get much worse — or much weirder. “I’m…going to order some room service? Do you want to—”  
  
She blinks. “Kylo, it’s after 1 in the morning.”  
  
He shrugs. “Ok. What do you want?”  
  
“Who said I’d say yes?” Her tone rises to carry the weight of her incredulity.  
  
“Your only objection was the time of night,” he shrugs again. “That’s not a ‘no, I would sooner poison you than eat with you’, so that sounds like a yes to me.”  
  
Don’t _ever_ argue with a _lawyer,_ she sighs to herself. He wasn’t wrong, though, and that is alarming in and of itself.  
  
He continues as if she had raised no objection at all. “Sushi? Pizza?” He pauses. “Fish & chips?”  
  
She actually levels a glare at him for that one, but is completely disarmed when she realizes he’s grinning. She’s seen grins that make her squeal with girlish glee (again, Jareth), but never in her life has she seen a smile that turns her insides to mash and makes her knees wobble. Then again, she’s never seen Kylo Ren smile before. Perhaps that’s a coincidence—and it doesn’t hurt that he’s still in the costume—but perhaps that’s not a coincidence at all. She starts giggling, which turns into full-on guffawing, and he’s waving her in with a pink tinge to his cheeks, praying that she doesn’t wake anyone else in the hall. Rey stumbles in under one of his arms, still clutching at her sides, and collapses into a chair.  
  
“Oh god,” she gasps, “I really needed that.” Her head lolls back as she takes a deep breath, banishing the last of the giggles. “Nothing good is going to come of my eating in this dress, though.”  
  
He waves off her protest and turns on the television. Netflix is featuring Labyrinth on the front page. He raises his eyebrows. “Well?”  
  
Rey scrambles over to the corner of the bed. “Of course!”  
  
Kylo is struck once more by the strangeness of the situation; Rey Johnson is sitting on his bed, still dressed as Sarah. He can’t decide how this makes him feel, though ‘confused by Rey’s presence’ and ‘mildly aroused by having Sarah on his bed’ are definitely top contenders. “I’ll order some food and then we’ll start the movie.”  
  
“Oh! Um… some form of beef and some form of potatoes, please.”  
  
He blinks, absorbing her request and how it was phrased, and then pulls out his phone. After a few taps, he asks her how she wants it cooked.  
  
“Er… medium?”  
  
“Right.” A few more taps, and he puts down his phone. Looking to the bed, with Rey on it, Kylo looks a little uncomfortable for the first time that evening. “Where…?”  
  
She rolls her eyes. “It’s your room, Kylo. I’m just a guest in it. I imagine you can sit wherever you like.” He lowers himself cautiously to the opposite side of the bed, smiling to himself as the opening music begins and Rey sits forward, eager as if it were the first time she’d seen it.  
  
“…I have fought my way here to the castle beyond the Goblin City, to take back the child—” Rey stops suddenly and looks over at Kylo, blushing. “Sorry, do you—” She gestures at the TV.  
  
He fights a smile, and shakes his head. “Guilty as charged.”  
  
“Oh, good…some people, you know…”  
  
“Don’t worry about it.”  
  
The part where Sarah sees Jareth for the first time is coming up, and Rey notices a tingling, fluttering feeling all over, and she’s nervous for some unknown reason. Well, not _unknown_ so much as _absurd;_ she’s seen this movie more times that she can count, and speaks the lines every time. The few times that she’d had friends watch it with her, they were all girls. Delivering these lines with someone who is decidedly _not_ a girl… who is dressed like Jareth… her imagination begins to run away with her, anticipation building inside of her for something that she can’t quite put a name to.  
  
“Forget about the baby,” he says, the voice beside her making her shiver.  
  
“I can’t.” Rey speaks almost unconsciously, hyperaware of Kylo’s presence.  
  
“Sarah, don’t defy me.” Rey won’t, she absolutely won’t…as the tension climbs, heat rising, she couldn’t defy Jareth if she tried.  
  
“You’re no match for me, Sarah!” As he gives the line, Kylo is suddenly aware, in a way that he has never been before, just how wrong the Goblin King was; Sarah was a perfect match for him. She had never had her mettle tested, and he had all the advantage of decades, or centuries, of experience. No one could match him the way she could, if only because she had the courage to face him, which no one else had.  
  
As he listens to Rey deliver Sarah’s lines, something inside him ignites. Despite her age, and the harsh experiences of her life, somewhere in her heart, Rey is still Sarah—still waiting for someone to offer her the opportunity to liberate herself from the confines of the life she has known. She said as much, in her confession at his door, and in this moment, the clashes between them are suddenly shown in a new light.  
  
The music begins, and—is Kylo sitting closer than before? Well, either way, Rey would be lying if she said she isn’t looking forward to finding out whether he can sing.  
  
_“I saw my baby, crying hard as a babe could cry. What could I do? My baby’s love had gone, and left my baby blue! Nobody knew what kind of magic spell to use…”_  
  
Rey gasps as his fingers whisper over the top of her shoulder, stroking up toward her ear as he croons softly.  
  
_“That_ magic spell,” Rey whispers, her breath quickening. “Use that one.” Her request is honored with the press of plush, hot lips just below her ear, and she shivers, leaning into the feeling of him. His lips move down her neck, toward her shoulder, and she closes her eyes, a noise of appreciation escaping her. His fingers flex, wrapping around the back and side of her neck, his fingertips grazing her throat, and he continues to kiss the exposed skin of her upper back, breaking off with a sharp inhale of his own when her hand slides over and across his thigh, desperate for something solid to anchor her in the maelstrom of sensation. The movie fades to indistinct background noise as Rey turns toward Kylo, her eyes wide and dancing over his features, her lips parted, and her breathing a little ragged. He looks hungry, and he licks his lips as his gaze roves over her with evident appreciation, but he waits. She does not leave him waiting long, closing the distance to kiss him, a kiss that unbottles all of her frustration and curiosity and desire, sending them plunging headlong down a slope of no return. She pushes, and he backs up, and she pushes, and he gives until he’s lying flat on his back and her skirts are spread out all over the bed as she kisses, and he touches, and she purrs, and he growls—and then there’s another knock, and he nearly snarls in frustration, but she perks up and rolls to one side of him.  
  
“Food?”  
  
He cocks an eyebrow, affronted at her betrayal, and she returns his stare. “Listen, Rule 1: When there’s food, you eat, Kylo.”  
  
“I rather thought that’s what you were doing,” he fires back.  
  
“You’re wearing entirely too much clothing for me to do that, O Goblin King,” an eyeroll accompanying her jibe.  
  
A thrill zips up his spine and through his belly at the thought, and he can’t quite muster the ire to snap at the delivery driver for interrupting them. He signs for the food, locks the door, turns to put the food onto the table—and nearly drops it as he realizes that Rey is struggling to get her zipper down.  
  
“What are you doing?” he asks, his voice rising despite the fact that he’s well past puberty, thank you, and has in fact seen a naked woman before.  
  
“I already told you, I am _not_ eating in this dress.”  
  
He groans as his body strains at the confines of the cup. “How am I supposed to do… _anything_ …when you’re—”  
  
“Would you please get over here and _help_ me with this?!”  
  
Kylo has never been more delighted, or flustered, to be asked to take a woman’s clothes off. He deposits the food on the table, then fairly leaps to her side. “Turn around.”  
  
She does, moving her hair out of the way, only to have Kylo wrap one arm around her waist and resume the slow, hot trail of kisses, following in the wake of the zipper as he unbinds it, seemingly one tooth at a time. Rey is ready to scream in frustration—or something else—by the time he reaches the area between her shoulders. She turns, reaching up to clasp his neck, and pulls him down into another passionate kiss, then pushes off of him, making her way to the bathroom, closing and locking the door. Kylo avails himself of the opportunity to strip off the coat, hanging it up, and her voice rings out from the bathroom.  
  
“Do you mind if I use the robe?”  
  
_Yes!_ “No, go ahead,” he tells her, then decides he might as well join her in that state, removing the wig and cap, giving his hair a quick shake and brush through, and fishing out his own robe (he learned in his early 20s that bringing his own was more or less required, as no one ever had the proper size for him). Before he can finish unbuttoning his shirt, he hears the _click!_ of the bathroom door, and Rey emerges. Looking at her, he knows right then that dinner is going to have to wait; ‘dessert first’ has just become an absolute biological imperative.  
  
“Why are you staring at me like that?” she asks, almost nervous. Rather than answer her, he simply moves toward her, the long lines of muscle and sinew in his body, more apparent without the overcoat, giving him a savage beauty that makes Rey gulp. Pinning her to the wall with a searing kiss, his hands rove all over the outside of the robe, honing in on the curves beneath her breasts and the swells of her hips. He uses his thumbs to swipe across her nipples, soft buttons that lay hidden beneath the fabric, which activate centers of shocking pleasure within her and make her produce the most enchanting sounds.  
  
“Please,” he murmurs between kisses. “Please, let me give you everything.”  
  
“Kylooooh…” she moans, a noise that sets him alight. “Yes, yessss…”  
  
He scoops her up, carrying her the few steps to the bed and laying her across it as gently as he might place a porcelain doll, then climbing over her, his hands hovering over the tie to the robe as he waits, the question in his eyes. She unties the robe, and he peels the lapels back, exposing her slowly, adoring her with kisses all along the valley of her breasts and down to her navel. His hands cup her breasts, stroking and squeezing, and he flicks his tongue across one, learning what she needs. Her hips buck up, and she mewls; she would be embarrassed if she wasn’t so drunk on pleasure. Rey’s eyes fly open as he breaks contact with her, raising up to finish unbuttoning his shirt. She wants to snap at him to get his hands back on her, but what she sees beneath his shirt is a religious experience; some god somewhere lovingly carved Kylo Ren from marble and gifted him to the mortal world—to her, specifically—and he is going to make a believer out of her! As his now-bare chest moves against her belly, his tongue and lips teasing her breasts, she feels the heat rising in her center, and she can feel the slick arousal that is building, waiting for him; if she’s ever wanted anyone this badly, she can’t remember it.  
  
He has got to get these pants off; while the cup had been necessary for the tight trousers he was wearing, they are quickly becoming uncomfortable. He raises off of her again, coming to stand beside the bed, and she rolls to one side to watch him as he takes his boots off, then fiddles with the clasp of the cup so he can remove it all as one piece; her eyes go wide at the sight of his erection. He moves back onto the bed, and she has let the robe fall from her shoulders, completely bare for him. There is no poem, no song, nothing to express the beauty and glory of the queen before him, most powerful at her most vulnerable. He kisses his way down again, hovering to lick and nip at her thighs as his fingers tease the outer edges of her entrance.  
  
“God, you smell divine,” he growls, licking one warm line directly between the outer lips, the tip of his tongue grazing her inner petals and the pearl that crowns it all.  
  
“Oh, fuck,” she breathes. _“Please,_ Kylo.” She’s begging shamelessly now. “Please don’t make me wait. I _need_ you.”  
  
“As my queen commands,” he purrs, and she feels a little crest of pleasure at that, more wetness dripping down her thighs. Reaching over into the nightstand, he pulls out a foil square, and once prepared, he is swiping up and down her entrance with his tip, teasing and maddening her, but they both get more than they bargained for when she suddenly shifts her hips, burying him halfway. A guttural moan tears its way free from the very deepest part of him, and she is sighing, her body singing, as half becomes three-quarters becomes hilted. They grind together, hips pumping pleasure into hips, and he kisses whatever he can reach: breasts, nipples, neck, mouth, and ears all in turn are nuzzled, nipped, and tongued. It’s all Rey can to do hold on, locking her legs around him and letting her hands roam free. A hiss escapes him as she bites him, just on the shoulder, and his eyes, when she can see them, are deep black with the barest ring of caramel whiskey. He latches on to her breast, laving the underside of her nipple, and it is the push she needs to send her screaming over the edge, her nails etching her pleasure into his back.  
  
“Kylo!” she screams, holding on for dear life as the bottom falls out and the world spins around her.  
  
“Rey-y-y-y-y” is his answering groan, stuttered through clenched teeth, as he empties himself. Collapsing beside her, they’re both panting, and when she seeks his eyes, it’s clear that everything has changed.  
  
_“How you turn my world, you precious thing!”_  
  
Kylo smiles. “My sentiments exactly.”  
  
“I don’t know,” Rey replies, her fingers tracing patterns on his chest. “I am definitely starving and exhausted, but I’d say the stars moved.”

  



End file.
